Jack of Diamonds, Queen of Hearts
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: A series of short stories set in the early years of Patrick Jane and Angela Ruskin  Jane , events and experiences all leading up to that fateful day. A continuation of Courting Fire, because so many asked.  Dedicated to allanon9
1. Chapter 1

_**Courting Fire**_

He watched her as she worked under the huge spinning wheel that was her Metal for the week. She could work them all, probably could have since she was four. It was like an extension of her arms, the dials, levers and switches that ran the machines. But she took their tickets too, and she smiled at them and chatted while the Wheel spun around and around above her head, and they waited in line for their turn. She didn't care about the Metal, she didn't care about the profits, she cared about the people. It was unusual in this company, remarkable actually, and he was crazy over her because of it. He always had been.

It was twilight, the best time to come to a county fair. The sky was dark, the lights were bright, and the smells of kettle corn and cotton candy filled the air, rising and falling on the Missouri breeze. There was also the smell of smoke, of oil and of elephants, a strange blend to be sure, but it was the smell of his life. That and the little trailer that he called home. That home often smelled like cigarettes, booze and cheap women, and on those nights, he stayed outside.

Like tonight. He had skipped out on his gig in the striped blue and purple tent. There was something in the air tonight, a dense wind that had him feeling tight and wired. Besides, he had already put in a full day. He had made his money, earned his keep, kept his dad in poker money. He needed to see her, to touch her hair, her skin, her hand. She was the only reason he was still here. She was so very young.

The Wheel went round and round above her head. And so as he watched her, her narrowed his eyes and willed her to look at him. She would, he knew. It was almost as if she sensed him from miles away. He watched her smiling, laughing, chatting with the marks who paid big bucks to be entertained. He willed her to feel him, to throw a glance his way, to lower her eyes and blush. That was the best of all, when he made her blush. He knew he could get to her everytime.

Waiting, watching, willing, and _there!_ She glanced over her shoulder, saw him strung out like a set of Christmas lights under the tracks of the 'coaster. Quickly, she looked away, as if the very looking could unleash a monster, set in motion forces that could not be stopped. Which of course, it could.

For he sprang from the tracks and bounded through the crowds to the gate that encircled the Wheel. One hand on the rail, he hopped it with little effort. He was a cat. Jane the cat. And she was his mouse.

He climbed onto the control panel, dropped his backside onto the On/Off switch.

"Hi," he said, grinning like a schoolboy. Which of course, he never had been.

"Get off, ape," she grinned, tried to push him off, but he was well and truly set. "I have to work."

"Kiss me."

"Get off!"

The Wheel went round and round above their heads. The lights danced in her eyes, reflected off her long, dark hair. It was pulled off in a ponytail, and it bounced whenever she moved her head.

"Kiss me and maybe I will."

"I can't kiss you, Paddy. Not here. Someone might see."

He leaned back, spread wide his arms. _"Everyone_ will see!"

The waiting crowd cheered, entranced. He bowed to them like a performer. Which of course, he was. He worked them like a pro.

She pushed at him again. "My dad will kill you."

The Wheel went round and round above their heads. He dropped his chin in his hand, glanced up, pouted. "They're getting a long ride tonight, yeh?"

She leaned into him. "You are _sitting_… on the _switch."_ Her eyes flashed at him, set his pulse racing.

He leaned into her, grinning all the more. "Then kiss me and I'll move."

"Kiss him!" someone yelled from the crowd.

"Yeah, kiss him or we'll never get our turn!"

"Your customers are getting restless, Angela."

He never called her Angela. Only when he wanted to push her buttons. Which was often. She sighed and pecked him on the cheek.

"There. Happy?"

"Meh. Your aunt Tessie kisses better than that."

He bent toward the crowd, his backside still firmly planted on the panel. "Sorry!" he called to them. "No ride tonight. You'd best all go home! Her dad will give you a full refund. Carl Ruskin. Just ask for Carl. Lovely man. Don't mind the tattoos. He's a pussycat."

"Kiss him," they cried, as if they were at a baseball game and cursing the Ump.

"What?" He cupped a hand behind his ear. "I can't hear you!"

"Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!"

He swung his arms with the beat, as if he were conducting an orchestra, but in fact, he only had eyes for her.

"Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!"

She growled, grabbed him by the ears and kissed him.

The waiting crowd went wild and the Wheel went around and around above their heads.

Her hands slid into his golden hair and she kissed him.

The Wheel went around and around above their heads.

Ran across the breadth of his shoulders, down his back, to his narrow waist, pulled him so very close and she kissed him.

The Wheel went around and around above their heads.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she let him go

He swayed a moment as if dizzy, but he landed on his feet. He always did. Like a cat. Jane the cat. And he left the control panel and the dock of the Wheel, sprang over the gate and sprinted off into the crowd, pausing only once to turn back.

"Tonight?"

"When my shift is over!" she called back, laughing, the wind blowing her long dark hair. "I have to put away the elephant!"

He leapt into the air like a young lamb and disappeared into the lights and sounds and smells of the Show.

...

They usually met at 1:00am , after the Metal had been shut down and the elephant locked away. Tonight, it was under the crane which traveled with the company, moving things far too heavy even for strong men, bearded ladies and freaks. Until they packed up again, it was usually deserted. The perfect place for a late night rendezvous.

He stroked her hair, breathed deep the scent of her. Shampoo and wet grass filled his world right now, shampoo, wet grass and her fingers running circles across his chest. He was on his back, sleepily counting stars, thinking he'd never been happier in all his life. No sex, not yet. She was only seventeen and a good girl. He was almost nineteen, so very much older, far more worldly, yet she still made him feel like a little boy. He had lost his heart the moment he had seen her, back when he was twelve, but had never told a soul. She was meant for better things than him.

He sighed. It had been a strange day, tense and heavy. He could sense these things. They weighed on him like a blanket.

"So." She nudged him. "Keep going."

"Right. So then, there was this lady. I think she must have been eighty. She had a whisky flask, very old, wanted me to use it talk to her husband."

"Through a whisky flask?"

"He was dead. Maybe five, six years dead."

"You can't do stuff like that, Paddy. It's not right."

"I know. But still, she said she'd pay me whatever I wanted. My dad was so pissed off that I wouldn't do it. I might have, but honestly, I didn't even know where to start. How do you pretend to channel dead spirits? Hmm, I should look that up…"

She pushed up, leaned her chin on his chest, ran her fingers under the buttons of his shirt. "You're too smart for that stuff, Paddy. You could go to college, you know."

"Without High School? Are you kidding? No college would take me."

"Any college would take you, Paddy."

"Yeah. I'll wash the professors' elephants, read their palms, research my thesis on Heterotic String Theory in Latin. You know, typical college stuff."

She sighed and her eyes drifted upward, and he suddenly felt very bad. He reached up to stroke her cheek. His fingers were dirty. Not good for a palm reader and sleight of hand artist. His dad would kill him if he saw.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I just don't like it when you're cynical like that," she started. "It reminds me of my father. It's soul destroying."

"I know. I don't want to be here any more than you do."

"Then let's leave."

His heart skipped. He wasn't sure he'd heard.

"What?"

She looked down at him now. Her face was his whole world. Her face, and the stars. "I'm eighteen in four months. We can leave then. Make our own way. You could get a real job somewhere. I could find something. We could have our own place…"

"Together?" It came out like a squeak._ Was she suggesting what he thought she was suggesting?_ "You mean, like, 'move-in-together-own-place' kind of place?"

A hint of a smile tugged into one cheek. "Well, we'd have to get married first."

_Married._ He thought his heart would burst out of his chest. She wanted to marry him.

He rolled out from under her and onto his knees, fished in his pockets for something, pulled it out and held it up for her to see. It glinted in the moonlight.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied it, then suddenly her face split with a wide smile.

"That's the cheesiest ring I've ever seen…"

He smiled back, sun, moon and stars all rolled into one, just for her. "I know, I won it at the bottle toss. Pegged it in one, blindfolded." With the greatest care, he slid it over her finger. She admired it in the moonlight.

"One day, I'll get you a real one. A diamond so big you won't be able to lift your hand."

She laughed.

"I _will _get a job. We can go to Reno. It's smaller than Vegas, so it's a good place to start. I can work the tables—"

"No, Paddy. No gambling."

"No, no. For the house. I could be a dealer somewhere. I think you can do that at nineteen. No one has hands like me."

She smiled again and it took his breath away. He gathered her hands up in his. The plastic gem pressed into his palm.

"We're going to have so much money, Ange. We'll move to California, buy a house, a _rea_l house. No more trailers. We'll get a house in, in…" His eyes danced as he thought. "Malibu."

"Malibu?"

"Yep, a house in Malibu. Right on the beach. You'll see, Ange. I'm gonna do it. Your dad, my dad, we'll show them all what I can really do."

She shook her head. "Patrick Jane, you're gonna be the death of me."

He leaned forward and kissed her. "Yes I will."

There was a rustle of fabric by the crane as a shape moved out of the shadows.

"Psst, Boy Wonder. You're dad's looking for you."

"Danny…" Angela hissed.

Danny Ruskin stepped into view. He was a young kid, skinny, not quite fifteen. "You two better amscray. The Dads are on the warpath, and let me tell you, it ain't pretty."

"Oh no," she moaned.

Patrick squeezed her hand as he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. "It's okay. Four more months, remember."

Young Ruskin frowned. "Four months to what?"

Jane stepped over to where Angela's brother was lurking. "I can't tell you, Daniel. Trade secret. Someone would have to kill me if I told."

"Who? Who would have to kill you?"

"I can't tell you that either. Then they'd have to kill you."

And he slipped away into the night, like a cat. Jane the cat.

...

He waited for a moment by the door of the trailer, listening quietly for sounds of sex. He didn't care what his dad did, he just didn't like the way the women looked at him when they were done. Without exception, they put the moves on him, even in the presence of his father. To make it worse, he could see his father trying to figure an angle, a new way to make money off his almost-adult son. He hated how it made him feel.

The trailer was silent and dark, save for the radio light over the little sink. He let himself in, trying not to breathe the stale smell of cigarettes, but the whisky smelled good. He looked around in the dark for the bottle when he saw his father sitting in a chair, waiting.

"Dad."

"You didn't do your show tonight, son."

He shrugged, tried to rally. "Nah. Took the night off."

"Going into business for yourself, are you?"

"You're drunk." He set his jaw. "I'm going to bed."

"I'm not finished with you yet." And his father rose to his feet. He was a tall man, squared shouldered and hard, with dark hair and quick blue eyes. The eyes were the only thing that linked father to son. In all other respects, Patrick looked like his mother. "You don't do anything lest I say so. And you certainly don't take a night off whenever you feel like it. Do you understand?"

The heat was rising in him, but he didn't move. He never could. It was the only way to stay in one piece. Shut down and shut up. The only way.

"That woman was willing to pay one thousand dollars. One thousand dollars!" He rapped his son on the side of the head. "Does that even register in that scattered brain of yours? Maybe I should make you pay the rent on this dump of a trailer. Maybe I should make you pay for your own clothes, your own food, all this fine whisky. Maybe that might make you grow up some. Might make you think twice before you up and decide to take the night off…"

He moved to push past his son, but grabbed his arm and yanked him close. "And stay away from that Ruskin girl. We don't need any trouble from Carl. He'll kill you, he will." He smiled, patted him on the cheek. "And then how will we pay for the whisky?"

He released his son and pushed past him toward the bedroom.

"We're getting married."

_Damn!_ He hadn't meant for it to come out. His mouth always got him into trouble. He had meant to shut up, keep quiet, lay low. Only four more months, after all, but he couldn't keep his damned mouth shut for more than four minutes.

His father turned around slowly.

"You're what?"

A strange calm came over him. He didn't care. He was leaving in four months. He just didn't care anymore.

It was strangely liberating.

"I said, we're getting married. She'll be eighteen, I'm almost nineteen. We're going to leave this place and never come back." His body was frozen but his tongue was free. It would be the death of him someday.

His father was in his face now. It was almost funny. "You think you're going to marry Carl Ruskin's daughter?"

"Yes."

"And how are you going to live without the show?"

"We'll figure it out. We'll make our own show."

"Oh, you will, will you?"

He hadn't hit him yet. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe the smackdowns when he was a kid had done the job, training him to stop before he crossed the line. But he was older now, stronger, and maybe all that was left was threats and intimidation, and therefore, impotence. Suddenly, his entire world shifted, something inside him clicked, and that line became a red flag. He knew it was meant for crossing.

He slipped his hands into his pockets.

"I guess you'll just have to buy your own whisky."

The blow nearly flung him off his feet, a savage backhander that sent him reeling into the metal fold-up dining table. It took a moment for him to register what had happened, but by then, his father's hand had fallen across the back of his neck, staying just long enough and squeezing just hard enough to threaten, keeping him bent over and down for several minutes before relaxing, and running up to ruffle his hair.

"You shouldn't make me do things like that, son. We're a team, and teams don't hurt each other. If you get Carl Ruskin mad at you, well, that spoils the team. It's selfish, son. I don't want you to be selfish. It's a very ugly trait. I'm just looking out for you, is all. Helping you grow into a man worthy of respect. Can you understand that, son? Can you?"

_The only way._

He nodded, and his father patted his back.

_The line was a red flag._

"Go get some sleep, son. We have a busy day tomorrow."

And he was gone, just like that, flicking off the little radio light over the sink as he went.

Leaving his son Patrick shaking by the door.

...

He used a stick to tap on her window. She shared a tiny room with Danny, which was good because Danny'd never tell. He waited the customary minute as she'd slip out, ever so quietly. Her dad was a tyrant, her grandparents having built this company from a single carousel and a rusted roller coaster in Oklahoma. But it was very late. He hoped she'd come.

She did.

"It's too late," she whispered, tugging a blanket around her shoulders. "If dad finds out..."

"We need to go now."

"What? Patrick?"

"Now. Come one." He grabbed her hand. "I nicked my dad's keys. It's only thirty miles to Fulton. We can take the I-70 West, then north once we get to Utah. I looked a map. I got it all memorized."

"Paddy, what happened? Did your dad…?" Her voice trailed off and her hand reached to touch his cheek. His lip was split, his jaw swollen.

"Nah," he lied. "Tripped on the way back in the dark. You know me, Jane the cat."

"Jane the cat." She smiled and he felt like crying. "I need to wait, Paddy. I can't do this, just run away like that. Four months. Can you give me four months? Then we'll go."

"Four months…" All the air was leaving his body.

She stretched up on tiptoes to kiss him. "Besides, we have a lot of planning to do. Four months will come quick."

He tried to smile, just for her. "Okay. Sorry for waking you."

"Are you outside tonight?"

"Yeah. Under the crane."

She peeled the blanket from her shoulders, wrapped him up in it. He breathed in deep, the smells of her, the soft scratchiness of the wool. It was still warm.

"Good night, Paddy."

"Night, Ange."

He didn't want to let go of her hand. But he did.

And then she was gone, slipping into the trailer like a shadow.

He turned back to the darkness, that second heavy blanket falling over him once again. He pushed it down, deep down inside, pulled other resources from within. Felt his heart grow hard, like a diamond. He would make it in Reno, he would marry this woman, buy a house in Malibu. He would show them all what he could do.

He would show them all, even if it was the death of him.

The line had become a red flag.

He took a deep breath and smiled, heading back to where he would sleep tonight, under the crane. And the lights of the Wheel over his head were silent.

_The end_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Playing with Fire**_

It was supposed to be the best day of their lives.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she sat next to him, their backs against the tire of the old truck. It had been a warm night, the sky was vast and streaked with red, and the distant lights of _Kansas City_ were twinkling like lights on a birthday cake. It should have been beautiful to watch the sun rise with her like this, alone and so far away from all that they had known, but in fact, he had never felt worse in all his life. He had made yet another mess of things, taken everything in her life and turned it upside down into chaos. He had finally and irrevocably crossed 'the line' and their lives would never, ever be the same. And to top it all off, he had ruined her birthday. She had turned eighteen tonight, and he had ruined it for everyone, most especially her.

He hated himself for it.

And yet, she was here, sitting next to him, their backs against the muddy rubber of the tire. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, dark hair rising and falling on the faint breeze. There was a bruise on her left cheekbone, dark and swelling and purple. It made him fell sick to know he had been the cause of it. He had set the forces in motion that had brought them to this place. It was all his fault, his and his alone.

He wondered if she could read his thoughts. She knew what he was thinking, she had to, for she caught his look, returned it and he felt his chest tighten inside him.

He swallowed. "I'm sorry."

She held his gaze for a moment before smiling. "Did you honestly think it could have gone any other way?"

She was a year younger than him but very wise.

"I did," he said honestly. "I did. I thought that maybe, once they knew, everything would be okay. That maybe your dad would be okay, you know, with us...with me…I thought…"

"_Did_ you think, Paddy?" she asked calmly. "Or did you just do?"

He looked away now, at the grass by his shoes. Brown shoes. He had found them at a Thrift Store in Little Rock, liked the old-school retro look of them. They were crusted with mud.

He didn't need to say anything. She could read him like a book.

"You shouldn't have jumped him like that."

"And he shouldn't have hit you like that." His eyes flashed with anger. She looked away as if he had just struck her with words rather than fists.

Immediately he felt worse. As if he could.

"I'm sorry, Ange." He sighed, rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry for ruining your birthday. I'm just, I'm sorry for everything."

She leaned her cheek on his shoulder, the cheek that was now tender. He sighed again. It broke his heart that she still wanted him.

"Your dad was something, though…" She smiled at the sunrise, remembering.

"Yeh," and he let her smile slip onto his face now. A sad smile, but still. "_A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma…"_

She looked up at him curiously, the smile lighting her face better than the setting sun.

"Churchill," he shrugged. "But he wasn't talking about fathers."

"Hmm."

His throat tightened again, and he looked back at the lights of the city, the clouds streaking red across the sky, the mud on his shoes, anything but her.

It was supposed to have been a good day. It had started out great. In fact, it was supposed to be the best day of their lives.

. . .

This was going to be the best day of his life.

He rolled the old truck past the crowded parking lot, towards the traveling trailer park that had been his home for as long as he could remember. From town to town, state to state, these trailers were his neighbourhood, these fringe people his family. No fond memories of tree-lined streets or backyard playforts, no favourite corner stores or soda shops or parks. For him, childhood was defined by tents and trailers, cards and clowns, freaks and marks.

He didn't care. He would be leaving it all in the morning.

Ronnie waved him in, past the crane, past the elephant, and he pulled up beside the beige and brown beast he called home. It had rained last night and the grass was muddy, creating ruts in the ground under the tires. He slipped the keys in his pocket and pushed the door open with his foot. He could hear the sounds of the carnival rides and the music from the games-of-chance booths. He could smell the oil and the elephant and the kettlecorn and cigarettes, but he pushed them all out of his mind as he slid out of the truck, his arms weighed down with books.

"Hey Paddy! Yer old man's lookin' fer ya! You got line-ups round the park!"

"Pete, get the door, willya?"

"Boy, you in a world of trouble…" But the big man obliged, shaking his head and holding the trailer's swinging door open wide as Patrick Jane hauled his stash up the few steps and into the trailer proper. "You at the library again?"

"Yep. _Boonslick Regional_."

"How many books you stolen over the years? And from how many libraries?"

"How many states are there again?" Jane grinned as he laid the armful on the metal fold-down table in the tiny kitchen. "And they're not stolen, Pete. They're borrowed. On extended loan."

"Uh huh. Ever paid any late fees?"

"Nope."

"Going to?"

"Nope."

"And how does that qualify as a loan, exactly?"

Jane held up one of the books. "Look at this – '_Hypnotize your Way to Fame and Fortune.'_" And another. "_'Hypnosis – Separating Fact from Fiction.'_" And another. _"The Mind's Eye Revealed: A Study in Hypnosis, The Power of Suggestion and Psychology.' _This is amazing. I could _so_ do this."

Still standing at the door, Pete put his meaty hands on his hips. "Uh huh. And you better be startin' with your dad. You missed two shows this morning and one this afternoon. There's another one scheduled in fifteen minutes. If you don't make it, he's gonna skin you."

Jane flashed him a wicked smile. "You wait, Pete. The show we've got now is for kids. I'm going to take it to the next level. I'm going to make a show that's going to knock your socks off." His blue eyes flicked down. "Or in your case, stockings…"

"Shut it, Boy Wonder," Pete grinned. "Tonight's Angie's party."

Jane turned back to his books, dragged several cardboard boxes out onto the table. "Yep."

"A big night for her."

"Yep."

"You gonna do anything?"

The young man said nothing.

The big man sighed. "Paddy, just…just be careful. Promise me you'll be careful."

"Oh, I'm always careful, Pete." He turned his back to his friend. "Close the door, will you? I need to finish something."

"Your dad's gonna skin you…"

"I know. Thanks Pete."

And the door to the trailer closed on stolen library books, cardboard boxes and a young Patrick Jane.

. . .

Pete had been right. Alexander Jane had been livid.

He'd had to cancel four sold out shows, refund four tents-full of tickets, make promise upon promise of one evening show that would beat all the others, and hope to hell his son showed up for any of it. Carl Ruskin would be wanting_ his_ head next if his boy didn't show.

He'd strolled in just before opening, in long pants and some sort of vest, probably picked up at some thrift store somewhere. There were three buttons to four buttonholes but his son didn't seem to mind. The kid had no style, and was rebellious as all get out. Whupping him was getting more and more difficult now. There seemed no holding him back.

Alexander Jane had ground his teeth, steeled his eyes and held his tongue, but the moment the lights came up, he was all smiles and show. _Patrick Jane, Psychic Boy Wonder, Marvel of the Universe, Read Your Mind, Tell Your Fortune, Channel the Dead_. The boy had begun 'calling spirits' only these last few months, speaking to dead friends and relatives of the suckers in the audience, and that kept them coming from miles around. They paid good money to see his boy in action, to just be in the same room with a Crystal Child, as some were calling him. It was a new thing, this spirit dance of Patrick's, but hell, it paid well and had seemed to keep him quiet for the last few months. But truth be told, his son was beginning to scare him.

He was more a bystander now as Patrick took complete ownership of the show. People in the audience would bring him things, objects from loved ones, rings, watches, pens, journals and Paddy would do his usual schtick, telling them what they were holding and why it was significant. He had ditched the blindfold now, as the folks gathered seemed to trust him completely, again a new thing. No dad required. And then they would pass him the item and from there, who knew where it would go. It always ended in tears, though. Tears meant big money, and Alex had to admit that in that department, his son had no equal. He always got 'em crying like babies and they emptied their wallets with no restraint.

There was a girl now, a quiet sad one, early twenties, sitting on a stool beside him, and she was passing him a necklace, a silver locket hanging on a chain. He watched as his son took it in both hands, closed his eyes and breathed deep, once, twice, three times. The audience was spellbound, and the room was packed. There were even people standing along the sides and back, and Alex had charged double for the privilege.

Eyes still closed, Patrick smiled.

"A woman, a beautiful woman…" he said.

"Yes," the girl whispered.

"A relative…" Silence. "No, no… a friend…"

"Yes."

"A dear friend, a best friend…"

"Yes…"

"Not a woman, a girl, a beautiful girl…" Alex could see Patrick's fingers running along the surface of the locket, gleaning a lifetime out of a few simple etchings. "Red hair, green eyes…Audrey…Adrienne…"

"Adrianna," said the girl, and the audience gasped in wonder.

Alex ground his teeth again. _Boy Wonder._ Boy Wonder was gonna get his ass whupped tonight. Been a long time coming too.

"She's passed," said Patrick and the girl nodded. His eyes were still closed so he couldn't see. Easy stuff, thought Alex. Any carnie worth his salt to do it. His son just did it so very well.

Suddenly, Patrick frowned, reached out a hand and took the girl's wrist in a firm grip. The audience gasped. His breathing changed. "She was murdered, wasn't she? In a park in Gladstone. Strangled with a man's red silk tie …"

The girl gasped now and began to weep.

"She ran away, but she didn't mean it. She didn't want to go. She knows that now. She knew it then. But she always trusted too easily…"

"Yes…" said the girl.

"It was that man, the one who said he would take care of her, they went to the park and he killed her and covered her body with leaves. She always loved that park…"

Patrick released his breath with a shudder, opened his eyes slowly, frowning and blinking as if in confusion.

"Is that true?" he asked and she nodded, the tears spilling down her cheeks. He swallowed, passed the locket back to the girl. "I'm sorry," was all he said.

The audience burst out in wild applause and Patrick threw a wide-eyed glance at his father. Alexander Jane just shook his head.

Yes, his son was beginning to scare him.

. . .

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

His father grabbed his arm and spun him around. It was late, he could see the crowd gathered at the Ruskin trailer, hear the laughter as she opened presents under the carnival lights. The beer, vodka and whiskey were flowing freely, and he could hear Danny's drunken giggles from this far away. While the legal drinking age was 21, Missouri was one of the few states that allowed parents the right to give their children liquor at any age. It was a law that both he and Danny heartily approved of. They had lost count of the nights spent drinking under the canopies of big metal.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, son…" It was a growl, so he obeyed, turning his face away from the lights toward the scowling face of his father. He opened his mouth to say something but his dad cut him off. "What the hell are you thinking, son? You missed four shows today, the trailer is packed to the gills with boxes and you go all Jekyll and Hyde on me tonight in the show."

The younger Jane yanked his arm away. "She paid, didn't she? You got your poker money—"

"That's not what I'm talking about…" His dad took a step back, put one hand on his hip, ran the other through his dark head of hair.

Patrick stole a glance at the party, felt his fingers curl over the long envelope he had in his hand. He turned back to his father. "Then what, dad? What are you talking about, exactly?"

"I'm worried about you, son. What was that with the necklace and the dead girl? How did you know that stuff?"

"I don't know…"

"You took a real chance, there. If you were wrong, even in the slightest, those folks would have demanded their money back and today we would have been in the red."

_In the red. _How his dad hated being in the red. Any other colour but red.

"Well, I wasn't wrong, was I?"

"But how are you doing that?"

He shook his head, blue eyes honest for a change. "I don't know, dad. It just comes to me. It's like people are practically screaming it at me, I just need to know how to read it, that's all."

"But that stuff about the man and the dead girl and her body in the park—"

"I don't _know,_ okay? I don't know…" He glanced around anxiously. "Look, it's Angie's party. I promised her I'd go…"

"Sure…" and the tall man sighed, shoulders sagging, and his son paused, looking at him as if for the first time. He was leaving in the morning. He and Angela, and they hadn't told a soul. He had bought the tickets this morning. He might never see his dad again. The thought had never bothered him before. Suddenly, for some strange reason, it did.

"I'm sorry, dad. I have to go."

"Just be careful, son. With Carl…"

Patrick smiled, the smile that dazzled the crowds and emptied wallets like a charm. "Oh, I'm always careful, dad. Carl loves me, you know that. _He_ just doesn't know it yet." And with that, he turned and sprinted off towards the lights and laughter of Angela Ruskin's 18th birthday celebration.

Alex sighed, shook his head and headed back to the trailer.

. . .

Carl Ruskin smiled. Just two more presents, the cake and then lights out, and no sign of that damned kid. Maybe, if he were lucky, he wouldn't show at all. It would break his daughter's heart, sure, but that was better than the alternative. No daughter of his was marrying a boy like that, and if he got her pregnant, then he'd be family. Best to stomp it out now before it bloomed into something worse.

He watched her as she tore open the wrapping from a box, pulled out a bolt of fabric in a riot of colours. He puffed his cigar as she threw the fabric over her shoulders, turned to her friend Sam and hugged her tightly in thanks.

"It's from Peru," Sam was saying. "Liola's mom imports them."

"I love it!" Angie laughed and Carl watched her some more. She'd had a beer tonight. She wasn't much of a drinker, not like her brother or that Jane boy. Bad influences, both of them. She was a good girl, his princess, his treasure. Too good for carnie life. They had no money for college, although she would have done well. He could think of no way out for her.

He glanced at his wife, standing next to him, holding cheap white wine in a plastic cup. Good woman, small, quiet, soft, a rabbit to his bear, but she was strong like his daughter. Too good for him, but she had loved him since she was fifteen, married him at nineteen, raised his two children, losing one in between, and had never been unfaithful. Too bad he couldn't say the same.

The last present, a romance novel from Bette, the bearded woman. Private joke, he assumed. While Bette was most definitely bearded, no one really knew if she was, in fact, a woman.

And suddenly, there in the crowd of well-wishers and partiers, a familiar blond head, laughing, smiling, watching with quick eyes from the perimeter. He was waiting his turn, Carl knew, would upstage the whole night. That was his plan. The kid was desperate that way. He needed attention like no one else. He felt his wife tense at his side, tossed a look down at her. She liked the boy, he knew this as well, but felt him too intense for their Angie, too undisciplined for such a tender soul.

He tossed his cigar to the ground, crunched it under his boot, and made his way to intercept the trouble before his daughter could see.

"Party's over, boy," he grumbled as he pressed his bulk in between Patrick Jane and the others. "Go home."

The boy glanced up and Ruskin could see the wheels spinning behind those eyes. All the various ways he could get what he wanted, all the ways he could turn this mountain into a molehill. Always scheming, that kid. Just like his old man.

"Hey Carl, I was going to ask you about those tattoos—"

"I said go home."

He was fast, Ruskin had to give him that. No one faster. The boy deked left, darted right, dodged the swing of his hand and was suddenly at her side and he watched his daughter light up like a candle. He bristled with fury. She used to light up for him.

"I got you something," the boy was saying as he passed an envelope into her hands. "You need to read it tonight. But not now. Later. In private."

Ruskin shook his head. No wonder she'd fallen for him. Those eyes, that smile. He could charm the skin off a rattlesnake. He was good for business. Wherever they went, people came from all over every state just to watch him, see what he could do. It was as if the fair was playing second fiddle, merely support staff to the golden marvel who drew them in from far and wide.

Best to stomp it out fast.

"Alright folks," he boomed over the crowd. "It's late and we're taking the cake inside. Thanks for coming out."

"But dad…" Angie this time, turning her large eyes toward her father.

"Sorry, baby. It's family time ."

There was a collective groan from the party, but Carl Ruskin was their leader, the boss, and no one ever bucked Carl. They began to disperse, heading out in twos and threes toward their respective trailers, Bette and her live-in beau, the Incredible Collapsing Man. Vanessa the snake charmer and her two sons, Cobra and Viper. Midge the Seven-Foot Woman and her husband, Roy the Living Garden Gnome. Roadies and freaks and shysters, the lot of them. They were his people. He loved them like family.

And then there was the kid.

His wife and son had already disappeared into the trailer. Danny was likely too drunk to stay awake for cake anyway. He needed to be put to bed. Angie was hanging outside with Patrick. He was whispering to her, their fingers entwined, foreheads almost touching. It burned in his gut like a coal fire.

"Angie, inside. Now."

"Can Paddy come in?" Her eyes were pleading. "Please?"

"Yes, Carl, please?" echoed Patrick. He was smiling wickedly, eyes gleaming. It was a game to him, a game he wanted to win.

"I said family." Ruskin stared at the boy, his own eyes hard as steel. "He's not family."

"But daddy—"

"I said in!"

He took her arm, spun her around and shoved her up the steps and into the trailer, taking a moment to throw a smug look at the Boy Wonder left standing outside in the dark.

"You're a bastard, you know that?" Patrick called up. "A bastard and a bully."

Ruskin just smiled and closed the door behind him.

. . .

A birthday party should be a happy thing. It should be filled with anticipation and joy, celebration and sharing. It is very hard to sing Happy Birthday when the singers are tense and nervous, even harder when the birthday girl is weeping.

But on Carl Ruskin's urging, they did that very thing. They cut up the cake, had begun passing the pieces around on paper plates when the lights in the trailer went out, plunging them completely in the dark.

In fact, through the tiny windows, it seemed that the lights had gone out in the entire fairground.

"Damn," growled Ruskin. "I'll kill him."

There was a rap at the door.

Carl pushed it open. Patrick Jane was smiling up at him.

"Oh, hi. It seems we've lost power, yeh? So I guess you can bring the cake back outside."

"You little bastard…"

"We can light the candles again. Everyone can sing. Just like it should be. Just like family."

Ruskin took a menacing step down. "What the hell did you do?"

"Me?" He shrugged innocently. "The whole county's out. Can't even see the lights of _Sedalia."_

The big man glanced over the tops of the trailers._ Sedalia_, home of the Missouri State Fair, which had been their home for two weeks now, was as black as the carnival, the only light being the moon, a sliver smiling at them from the night sky.

"Maybe a transformer blew. Must be a storm coming." And he smiled like the sun. "Can I talk to Ange?"

Something tripped in Carl Ruskin, something dark and ugly that had been brewing for a very long time, and he marched down the metal steps, pushed the young man so hard that he staggered backwards, slipping slightly on the muddy ground.

"Get outta here," he snarled. "You and your old man, pack your boat and get outta my show."

"I just want to talk to your daughter, Carl."

"Get outta here!"

"It's just lights, Carl."

"I said get outta here!" And he pushed the young Jane again and again and again, until the soles of the ugly brown shoes couldn't take it anymore and they gave way, sending their owner backwards into the mud.

There was a blur between them.

"Daddy no!" Angela Ruskin, now eighteen, stood between two men she loved, one hand raised out to stop the one, another reaching out to help the other.

People were spilling out now from their trailers, alerted to sounds of trouble, the kind of trouble they had been expecting for months now, if not years. Ruskin's wife and son were there too, standing nervously at the door, not sure which way this thing should fall, but somehow knowing that, after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.

Angela turned to Patrick. "Paddy, just go home. We'll talk in the morning…"

"Talk?" he stared up at her from the ground. "Talk? Ange, you promised. You said after your eighteenth birthday…"

"What?" growled Ruskin. "You got plans to go somewhere, baby?" Slowly, he slid an envelope from his pocket, held it up in the moonlight. "You haven't told us 'bout no plans…"

Jane scrambled to his feet. "Those aren't yours, Carl."

"Daddy…"

"What is it, Carl?" asked his wife. She was holding a blanket around her shoulders, looking very small.

He slid two tickets from the envelope, all the while staring at his daughter. "Bus tickets for two. From _Sedalia_ to _Reno, _Nevada. Leaving tomorrow morning at eight. You going to _Reno,_ baby?"

"Daddy…"

"You leaving the show? With _him?"_ He spat the last word out like a lemon.

"Angie?" It was her mother. "Is this true?"

"You can't go, Angie." Her brother now, looking younger than his fifteen years. "No, Angie, no. You can't go…"

"They're not going anywhere, Danny. Unless they plan to walk…" And very slowly, he began to rip the tickets into very small pieces, let them float away on the night air.

"Oh, we're going," said young Jane. "Far, far away from this place. And you'll never be able to find us. None of you."

"Angie?" her mom sobbed.

"I'm sorry, momma." Angie was sobbing now. "I love him."

"You _love _him?" With dead eyes, Carl stared at his daughter, his princess, his treasure. "Are you _sleeping _with him, Angela?"

"Don't answer him, Ange." It was Patrick, tight as a wire behind her, looking as if he might bolt at any minute. "He doesn't deserve an answer."

"You've been sleeping with him for months, haven't you?" _His baby, his treasure._

"Daddy, no. I haven't—"

"You little whore!" and his hand flew out of it's own accord, striking his princess, his treasure, on the cheek, sending her now reeling and down into the mud.

Patrick was on him like a shot, the very force of him taking them both backwards against the trailer. But the boy was no match for the man, twice his age but twice his weight and experience, and Ruskin threw all his weight into his fists, once, twice, three times into the younger man's belly, knocking the air out of him like a punctured balloon. He could hear shouting, the screams of his wife, his daughter, the carnies that were his life, but his own pulse was louder, roaring in his head like a drumbeat. His hands found the boy's throat and they clamped tightly around it, lifting him off his feet, shoes scraping against the metal side of the trailer. It was mere seconds before that face, the face that drew people from every state, the face that could charm the skin off a rattlesnake, the face that made his daughter light up instead of him, her daddy, began to turn first red, then blue.

He would wipe the smile of that face once and for all.

Suddenly, another pair of hands, strong ones, grown ones, were on him now. One very strong arm slipped around his own throat, another under one shoulder, holding in a grip that would not let go for anything. He found his own face turning red, then blue, and within moments, he was forced to let go. Patrick Jane sagged against the trailer, Angela immediately at his side.

"_Go!"_ shouted a voice in his ear. "Paddy, take your girl and get the hell outta here!"

"Dad?" Patrick gasped, trying to catch his breath and blinking in the darkness as his father held the much larger man in a stranglehold.

"The truck is packed, keys in the ignition. Go now. Call me when you get to _Reno."_

"Dad, I'm sorry-"

"_GO!"_

Patrick took one step back, then another. He glanced at Angela Ruskin, tried to say something. For once in his young life, he couldn't find the words. She grabbed his hand and began to drag him away toward the old truck, away from everything they had always known, away from their family, their jobs, their life.

The tires spun in the mud for only a moment before the old truck roared out of the trailer park under the smiling sliver of the moon.

. . .

It was supposed to have been the best day of their lives.

And so they sat, their backs against the muddy tires of the old truck, on a hill outside _Kansas City._ The dawn was red. _Red sky at morning, sailor take warning_. Except he wasn't a sailor. He was a loser, a con man, a faker. He had dragged a beautiful girl from her home with promises of riches, of romance, of a better life. Hell, he didn't even have the money to buy her a coffee. He had left it all back in the trailer with his dad.

His eyes were stinging and he wiped at them with his hand.

She was watching him now.

He'd never cried in front of her, was careful never let her see that. Maybe once, when she had asked about his mother and he had lied about her taking a job as an English professor at Harvard. She'd known he was lying, but there were some things that he still couldn't talk about to anyone. She had left it alone. She was good that way for him. He could trust her with anything.

And so he let the tears spill down his cheeks, just a few, as he kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. Finally, he turned to her, smiled a weary smile.

"Happy Birthday," he said softly.

She smiled up at him but said nothing.

"You didn't even get to take your presents."

There was a look in her eye, something he had never seen before. It scared him, just a little.

"It's okay. I'll get you a really nice present when we get to_ Reno_. We'll find an apartment. I'll get a job at one of the casinos. Maybe you could teach piano…"

She was still staring at him, head cocked, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

"Does that sound alright? I know it doesn't make up for anything but still…"

When she didn't respond, he sighed and looked off at the sky once again. For some reason, he missed his dad.

"There is one thing," she said after a long while. "That you could give me for my birthday…"

He laughed, but it sounded sad, lost. "I don't have a nickel to my name, Ange. What can I possibly give you that you would want?"

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, to his red and bruised throat, to his chest, barely visible under the layers of shirt and vest, and his heart suddenly thudded as he realized what she was thinking. His breathing changed.

"I…ah, I thought you wanted to wait…you know," he swallowed. "'til, 'til we were married…?"

She moved in very close, kissed the spot where her father's hands had been. "I do."

Her mouth moved along his neck, his throat, his jaw and she shifted so that she sat in his lap, straddling him. He was dizzy with the feel of her.

"I, Angela Charlotte Ruskin, take you, Patrick Alexander Jane…" She kissed his chin, his cheek, his forehead. "To be my lawfully wedded husband…"

She slid her hands into his hair, arched her back like a cat. "Do you, Patrick Alexander Jane, take me, Angela Charlotte Ruskin, to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

He had no words. Her hands were moving to the three buttons on his vest, her hair spilling across his face. He was drowning in her. He couldn't breathe, his chest was going to burst. He simply had no words.

She smiled at him. "Say 'I do', silly."

He smiled at her. "I do."

And she pushed him down into the wet grass.

_The End_


	3. Chapter 3

**Breathing Fire**

He was very quiet as he slipped into the apartment early that morning. It was 5:40am, the Nevada sun already rising in the sky, sending shafts of light into the small kitchen. She would be up soon, he knew she would, for her shift started at seven, and she was always there on time, if not early. She worked hard. She always had.

The bathroom was small, and it took him only a few minutes to clean up, wash the smell of bar smoke and whiskey from his hands. Splashed the water on his face and neck, ran his wet hands into his hair. Cigar smoke stank through everything, and the last thing he wanted was to remind her of her dad. Gamblers had an affinity for living large – cigars, whiskey, butt-ugly watches and debt. He eyed the butt-ugly watch on his wrist, glanced around for a place to stash it. She'd know in a heartbeat if she saw.

He knew he should get a shower too, but then again, she would be up by 6:00, and with it any chance of touching her warm, beautiful body. He hoped it was a pleasant way for her to wake up, for it was certainly was a pleasant way for him to fall asleep.

He threw a look in the mirror and paused at the reflection. Nineteen. He was all of nineteen. Not nearly man enough for her. The plane of his cheek was lengthening, thankfully reducing some of the baby fat that had been stored there for so long, but he fretted over the little boy look of his mouth. He frowned, dipped his hands in the water again, ran his fingers through the shock of curls and marveled at how different he looked with his hair slicked back off his face like that. Cool, slick, dangerous. Wondered what she would think about it. He still looked like such a boy.

Nineteen. He was all of nineteen. He needed to be twenty-one.

He had searched, begged, manipulated, lied, cajoled, tried everything in his bag of tricks, but there seemed no getting around it. He needed to be twenty-one to get a job as a dealer in any casino in _Reno_, and he had been searching for three weeks. Finally, he had lied to her, told her he had found one on the outskirts of the entertainment district dealing a Blackjack table. He was gone most nights, and had honestly been searching until last Thursday when he had accidentally stumbled across an illegal game in the back room of a liquor store. He had played the role of a mark perfectly and scored fifteen hundred bucks that night. His first paycheck, he had told her. They had bought a bed with that money, and some clothes.

He rifled through his back pocket, stuffed now with pamphlets, ads and brochures. All his hopes folded into frogs in his back pocket, and as he stood there, in the tiny bathroom, he gently unfolded them, smoothed them out over the sink. A wedding dress in white silk from the outlet store in Laughlin. A ring, white gold with a solitaire, three carats of compressed carbon, able to cut through glass and leave a dent in a man's chin if ever she got the yen. And then there was the real estate, grand beach homes on the magical shores of the Pacific, home to dolphins and seabirds and surf.

And then there was the piano.

He stuffed everything else back in his pocket, bit his lip as his eyes memorized the details. A baby grand, far too large for this hole of a place, but one day, it would be hers, and she could play long into the night, carrying her heart along the bars and up to the clouds above her beautiful head.

One day, he would buy her that piano. And the house on the ocean and the dress and the ring. He would buy it all for her. He knew he would.

But he couldn't do it this way, with money earned in the back rooms of liquor stores. It would break her heart if she knew. Or she would leave, and that would surely kill him quicker than an angry bookie.

Each night now since Thursday, a different storefront and a different back room but the cigars and whiskey were always the same. The game was usually poker, and he had the perfect face, young, white and innocent. No one had ever made him as a player, and the years jockeying with his dad had taught him well. He could sucker them in like a pro, emptying their wallets while marveling at his 'beginner's luck'. He only needed to cheat on occasion, and while they would always threaten to rearrange his face, no one had ever caught him yet. He had more lives than a cat. Jane the cat. It had always been that way. He lived on the edge of a knife.

It was a rush and it was a ride, but it was a lie and he hated himself for it but it was so very easy. Too easy. He was lying to the one person in the world who had ever believed in him. He was gambling with her heart, that was the painful reality, and he needed to win like a drunk needed a drink, like an addict needed a score. He wondered what part of him had gone so wrong so early in his life and why.

He sighed, and looked in the mirror once again, realizing that sadness aged him far more than any slicked back hair. He had promised her he wouldn't do this, that he wouldn't gamble with their lives the way he had back with the show. He needed to get a real job and soon. Her disappointment would kill him as surely as that bookie, or that knife. That damned, accursed knife. It had two edges. Both cut deep.

And so with a deep breath, he folded that pamphlet of the baby grand into the shape of a swan this time, slipped it along with the ugly watch back into the pocket. He would be careful to lay the pants on the window ledge with a clean shirt and socks, as if for later. That way, she wouldn't go through them or mistake them for laundry. Besides, she would be gone for the day soon. She wouldn't have time. He flicked off the light and stepped into the bedroom.

It was tiny, but he had to admit, she had done wonders with a coat of paint and a calico quilt from an outlet store two blocks down. It was certainly better than the four weeks they had spent living out of the old red truck. It had taken them that long to save up the two months rent plus security deposit necessary for the apartment. She had taken a job immediately at a coffeeshop, as she had refused to work in any of the casinos. Not that she had anything against casinos. With her looks they would have hired her in a heartbeat, underage or not, but she was only eighteen, and all of those places were licensed and she had too much integrity for her own good. No hope for her in a place like that.

He was another matter entirely.

He lifted the quilt and slid in next to her, amazed still that he could. They weren't married, couldn't even begin to plan something until they were settled somewhere. She would have skipped the formality, dragged him off to some local chapel for a quick exchange of vows and a piece of paper, but he had refused. When she came down the aisle, she would be doing it right, the church and the dress, the flowers and the guests. And the ring. It would be that diamond, a biggie with a three-carat in the middle. No, when he married her, he would be doing it right, but that necessitated money, and right now, he had none. At least, none that he could admit to. She would never agree to a wedding paid for by a back-room kitty.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his cheek against her neck, breathed deep the scent of her. She deserved so much better than a carnie-come-gambler, and he had vowed to be that better, just for her. He would be, one day. He knew he would. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, felt her stir in his arms as she woke. With a deep breath, she turned her fine-featured face toward him so he could admire her profile in the dim light. She was so very beautiful.

"Good morning," he grinned, and kissed her cheek with little kisses. Little kisses eventually led to bigger kisses, and sometimes more, a fact which still boggled his mind. Her body was indeed a wonderland, and like the Cheshire cat, he so loved to explore.

"I went to see you last night," she said quietly. "At the _Lantern."_

He paused in his explorations, his kisses grew still.

"You weren't there."

When he didn't answer, she pushed up onto her elbows, her long hair falling across her face and shoulders. "In fact, you were never there. You don't work at the _Golden Lantern,_ do you Paddy?"

"Ange…"

"You're gambling, aren't you?"

He sighed, rolled onto his back. He couldn't try to cover up now. She'd hate him for it. If she didn't already.

"You promised you wouldn't. You promised."

"Ange, I can't get a job anywhere around here. You have to be twenty-one and I'm not."

"You only have to be twenty-one to work the casinos."

"I don't even have a social security number, Ange. My dad never got me one. Or a birth certificate. I don't have anything like that. I don't even know where to start."

"You got us here, Paddy, just because you put your mind to it."

"That's not the same."

"You can do anything you put your mind to. You just don't want to."

"I want to work, Ange. Don't say that."

"But you don't have to work the casinos. You could get a job anywhere."

He snorted. "Right. Can you see me flipping burgers or selling watches? I wash elephants, not cars."

She looked at him sharply. "Oh, that kind of job is good enough for me, but not for you."

"That's not what I said—"

"But it's what you meant." And she pushed up from the bed, leaving rumpled sheets and a cold breeze in her stead. She paused outside the bathroom door. "You know what it's like, Paddy, living with someone who gambles. Under the table. Behind closed doors. It's ugly. It's scary. It never ends well, someone always gets hurt, and I don't want to be the one who has to pick up the pieces. I can't see that happen to you, to us. I won't."

He couldn't look at her. "It's not like that, Ange. You know that. It's just a game, and I'm good at it. I win every time."

"It's illegal."

"I'm careful."

"No, you're lucky. But you push your luck - you know you do. You get bored with winning small and you need to push for bigger, better, badder. You've always been that way. It's scares me, Paddy, that part of you."

He shrugged, folded his arms across his chest but still couldn't meet her eyes. "One of my failings, I guess."

"Yeah, one of many."

They were quiet for a long moment, she holding the handle of the bathroom door, he holding his chest to prevent it from bursting wide open. He was terrified, though he'd never show it. He would be lost if she left. Shatter into a million pieces.

"Are you going to leave?" he asked quietly.

"Are you going to quit?"

He said nothing, wrestling.

"You promised, Paddy. That should mean something."

"There's nothing else I can do," he said, still not looking at her.

"You are the smartest person I've ever met, Paddy. Probably the smartest person in this whole city. Figure it out." And she turned and headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

He sank deeper into the covers and pulled the pillow over his head, hiding from the sunlight spilling into the room.

"""""""""""""""""

"I'm off now, Mrs. Daliwahl. Table three has paid and Table six is ready to leave."

"Twenty minutes over time today. You're a good girl, Angelina. You know that?"

She smiled as she stripped off her apron, tucked it into the bag slug over her shoulder. The little woman slipped an extra ten into her palm.

"Does your boy know what a good girl you are?"

"Yes, Mrs. Daliwahl. He knows."

"Bah," she snorted and threw a wave to the young man with dark hair and glasses lifting fries from a greasy basket. "My Ravi knows, don't you, Ravi? He would make a good boyfriend, don't you think, Angelina?"

Angela grinned and threw a glance at the young man at the fries. He rolled his eyes and grinned back.

"Yes, Mrs. Daliwahl. He would make a great boyfriend. But I think I'll keep mine for just a while longer."

"Oh sure, he's pretty, Angelina, and quick, like a mongoose. But a mongoose can charm a cobra for only so long before he gets bitten. A girl has to use her head, not just her heart."

Angela smiled at the thought of a bright-eyed mongoose named Patrick._ Patricki-Tikki-Tavi._

"He's going to hurt you, someday, that boy. I know these things. He's going to be the death of you."

"Good night, Mrs. Daliwahl."

And with purse slung across one shoulder, Angela Ruskin left the coffeeshop for the little apartment she called home.

It was very quiet when she slipped into the apartment that evening. The sun went down early this time of year, and the sky outside the kitchen window was a hazy gold. Outside of the city, the desert and surrounding mountains were beautiful. She couldn't say the same for the city however, but then again, she had never been much of a city girl. She'd moved around far too much for that.

He wasn't home yet and she laid her few bags on the counter for supper. He was working three jobs now, had been for the last two weeks since she had found out about _the Golden Lantern _and the gambling. The money was drastically different, and she was the breadwinner at the moment, carrying them both on a waitress' salary. But she couldn't complain. Her customers loved her and so the tips were good. She couldn't say the same for Patrick.

The first job he had found was, ironically, a car wash attendant.

It was a dead-end job, it gave him four hours a day, five afternoons a week, but they hadn't asked for social security numbers or any other form of ID. She had asked her brother Danny to case the Jane trailer, see if Alex had a stash of important documents somewhere. Danny could do it. Danny was stealthy that way.

The second job was at an all-night movie house, taking tickets, selling popcorn, cleaning aisles in between shows. He wore a blue shirt and cap and looked all of sixteen. It was also four hours a day, five nights a week but he worked for cash and they didn't ask questions. He could have been from Mars for all they cared.

The third job was dog-park supervisor.

Taken for much the same reasons, he was responsible for ensuring that all dog-park rules were followed. The big dogs in the big dog side, the small dogs in the small dog side, and that everyone scooped up after their pooches. The little old ladies loved him to pieces, and she had made him promise not to lift their jewelry or rifle their bags, although he did on occasion read their palms for money.

He hated them all, all three jobs, the numbing mindlessness of it all, the big fat SUVs that never got truly dirty, the careless dumping of unnecessary food to become garbage for someone else to clean up, the prim pampered puppies wearing bling that could keep a family in groceries for a week. He hated getting up in the morning, hated the few hours off in between shifts, hated the setting of the sun which sent him back out again. But he did go, every day and every night, just for her.

It was killing him, and he was letting it, just for her.

She headed into the bathroom, ran her hands under the water, splashed some on her face. She wore little makeup – only a little lipgloss and some mascara. She'd always had good skin, and as she patted her face with a towel, she studied her reflection in the mirror. She'd never considered herself beautiful as she was growing up. Too skinny, too gawky. Her lips too big, her cheeks too gaunt, too many freckles, but now, she had to admit, there was a certain symmetry that could be considered pleasing. Her eyes were hazel, with flecks of green, and she tanned like a Californian, although she'd always had a secret yen to be French. French women were sexy. Midwestern Carnie gals just weren't.

And so she pulled the band from her dark hair and shook it out, enjoying the sweep of it across her shoulders. Paddy loved her hair down, and she found in the drier states like Nevada, she could wear it that way more often. The Gulf States made her hair go flat and heavy, while the humidity made his curl like no tomorrow. Sometimes, there was no justice in life.

As she stepped out of the bathroom, and her eyes swept the order of the bedroom. He had made the bed before leaving, but hadn't got it quite right. Wrinkles, creases, the pillows laid flat, not layered, like she had seen in magazines. She tried to make it look like something, this ram-shackle little apartment, and she took a small amount of pride in pulling it off on occasion, although she had to admit that, like her secret desire to be French, a real home was likely even further beyond her reach. Not on their wages. Not for a very long time.

Sometimes, the life of the carnival seemed just a little exotic, and she wondered what she had given up, and why.

She was about to leave the bedroom to put the kettle on for tea when something caught her eye. A simple flash of metal lit up in the late afternoon sun. It was at the bottom of a mesh wastebasket in the corner of the room. _Odd, _she thought to herself, it hadn't been there this morning, and she moved toward it, picking up the basket and tilting it. The metal slid across the bottom. She frowned, reached in, and pulled it out.

It was a watch. A man's watch, all silver and gold and rhinestones and as gaudy as anything you might find in a Vegas outlet mall or Wayne Newton's dressing room. She'd seen it's like before, on her father when he was winning. On Alex Jane when he wasn't. On many other men who came in and out of the trailer at night. It was like a secret mark, only for gamblers - the gaudier the watch, the higher the stakes, the richer the game. It could probably be pawned for a thousand dollars. It was likely worth much, much more. And it was in the trash, with papers of a kind she had not seen in the apartment before.

She took a deep breath, lowered herself to the floor, and dumped the basket in front of her.

Fliers of real estate in California, and Vegas and Atlanta, ripped into a hundred pieces and tossed aside. Pages torn from magazines featuring wedding dresses and cakes, reception halls and diamond rings, big and flashy and not at all her style, all crumpled into tight little balls. Articles on hypnosis, his latest, most recent fascination, torn in half and discarded, along with pamphlets on local clairvoyants and their studios crushed like tins of soda. Several packs of cards also tossed, and finally, one thing that looked like it had once been an origami swan, flattened and crumbled into garbage, now at her knees.

Carefully, she unfolded its creases. It was a brochure from a music store just off the strip. They had looked in its windows once at all the pianos available inside. She had sighed and he had noticed. A brochure of pianos molded into a swan and therein, a photo of a shiny black baby grand, circled in red.

She had played all her life on a used portable keyboard that could fit under her bed in the trailer and go with them from stop to stop. At night, she would play for her family and her dad's people who traveled with the show. Some nights, it would be show tunes, other nights, jazz. But when she played for herself and for Patrick, just for the two of them, it was Bach.

Beautiful, rhythmic, sensitive and structured. Magic and mathematics in the same bar, Bach embodied everything she had every wanted, had ever dreamed, the music somehow having struck a cord in her that had resonated her whole life long. That resonance had only grown stronger the moment she met young Patrick Jane.

He created his very own rhythms wherever he went, as mathematical as he was magic, and he sensed things on a level unlike anyone else she had known. No one else could have caught her soul as he had, for she had been in love with the music of him before they had ever met. Like the music, he was beautiful. Like the music, he was magic.

This life, here and now, in this little apartment, working three menial jobs to keep her emotionally secure, was killing him, and the music was dying with him.

It broke her heart.

There was a click from the door, and she glanced up as he entered. His face was brown from the sun, his eyes tired, his hair flattened under the ugly cap he wore at the carwash, but when he saw her he smiled and it brought tears to her eyes. She leapt from the floor and rushed into his arms. He staggered as she hit, held on tightly as she wept, and he stroked her hair, bewildered and beguiled as any young man in the company of a weeping woman.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his neck. "I love you so much and I'm so sorry."

"W-why? What did you do?"

"I'm so, so sorry..." She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands. "I just... I didn't love you enough."

"Oh…" He grinned, clearly not understanding, but delighted nonetheless. _"That."_

"Shut up," she laughed now through her tears. It was a sputter, but still. "I'm trying to apologize."

"I've noticed."

"I'm trying to be serious."

"Failing miserably at it, by the way."

"Paddy! Shut up!"

"Shut me up, then." His grin grew wicked, and he took a step with her wrapped in his arms, backpedalling her toward the bedroom. _"If_ you can. I talk a lot. You may have noticed."

She kissed his mouth and kept on kissing him, effectively shutting him up for a good while.

They never made it to the bedroom.

And the Nevada sun went down in the little apartment, smiling and casting long shadows across the floor.

_The End_


	4. Chapter 4

**Red Jack to Open**

_There is blood and there is muffled screaming. There is garbage and spray paint on brick and a blade flashing down in darkness. There is a yellow smiley-faced button, torn from a blouse. There are struggles growing still, there is dying in the shadows and finally, there is quiet once again. _

_He needs to run._

"Paddy?"

_And he knows that somehow, it is only the beginning of the blood._

Someone is touching him.

_The red will chase him until it completely covers him._

"Paddy, are you alright."

He opens his eyes with a gasp, blinks in the darkness. He can see little, but the reflection of moonlight across the sweep of her hair. He can smell her, can feel her warm hands on him, but her words are almost drowned out by the sound of his pulse rushing like a river through his head.

"It's a dream, Paddy. Just another bad dream."

He can barely feel her as the adrenalin drains his body, leaving only breathing in its wake. He finds her hand, squeezes it to make sure she is real. She is. Very.

She leans in close. "Are you alright? Do you want to tell me about it?"

He shakes his head. "No, you're right," he says. "Just a dream."

He can see the worry in her eyes. His dreaming is not normal. At least that's what people tell him but he's never known anything different. He's been called psychic for years now. Psychic, clairvoyant, crystal child. He knows it's not true. He's just good at what he does, and that is reading people. Their body language, their intonations, their motives, even their physiology. It comes so easily for him that he usually doesn't even know he's doing it. And sometimes it's so easy, it's almost unnatural, and sometimes he wonders where the science ends and the magic begins. It's those times, and the blurring of the line, that scare him.

He is scared now and he wants to run.

"Are you sure," she asks again, a little furrow between her brows.

One look in her face and the world is beautiful.

"Yep," he says, and he kisses her hand, pulling it with him as he rolls over onto his side. She spoons up behind him, still holding him and lays her head against his back. He knows he will be lost without her.

She falls asleep quickly, but he lays there in the dark, eyes open, the image of the blood still etched in his mind, caught in the spinning of the smiley-faced button.

"""""""""""""""""

"Patrick Jane, you open your eyes right now!"

"No, no, this is astounding. Watch and learn, Ange, watch and learn…"

And he smiled like the sun, eyes still closed.

It was a beautiful morning in _Reno, Nevada_. The perfect morning to play hooky from work. She couldn't be persuaded – she was a good girl that way - but he had decided nonetheless, and called in 'sick' from his three jobs as soon as the alarm had sounded, waking her from her sleep and simply giving him permission to get out of bed. And so he was accompanying her to the little coffee shop where she worked. Backwards.

They had started out holding hands, but an idea had struck him. Now he was walking backwards, backpedaling down the street in front of her, holding her hands with his eyes tightly shut, a Cheshire cat smile on his face.

"I was reading it yesterday at the library—"

"You were supposed to be at work yesterday."

"Yeh. I got off early," he lied. "So according to this book, there's this part of your brain called 'the lizard brain.' It controls all autonomic actions and reactions in your body."

"I am _not _a lizard."

"And I can actually read what your mind is thinking by what your body is subconsciously telling me. Liiike…we're coming up to a set of lights, yeh?"

She set her molars. "Yes."

His eyes were still closed. "I could tell from the fact that you were slowing down, ever so slightly, and that your grip was getting just a little bit tighter on mine. You really don't want me to get hit by a car turning right on a red, do you? You love me far too much for that to happen..."

"I just don't want you to dent any cars. We don't have insurance."

His smile grew, and she couldn't help it. His enthusiasm was contagious. They had been walking this way for several blocks now, she walking forward, he backwards, and he had been navigating all manner of things, from pedestrians to signs, from lamp posts to the bicycles chained to those lamp posts. And now that she was aware of it, she could feel it in herself, the very subtle tensing of her muscles when he neared something, anything that might potentially trip him or cause him harm. Sometimes, he was such a boy.

"Women are particularly readable," he went on, "With their inherent qualities for care and nurture."

She tried to stay constant as she eyed the doggie doo on the sidewalk but he hopped it on one foot, clearing it easily.

"Now that was mean, Ange. Real mean."

But he was still smiling.

She grinned. "Just payback for the stereotyping."

"Meh. Its just biology. I bet this would be a great act in Vegas."

"We're not in Vegas."

"We should go to Vegas."

"I don't want to –"

"_Aah_, see? That was a curb. Thank you. Anyway, I was talking to Sally—"

"Sally? Sal Medina?"

"Yeh. The very one. He says they're dying for acts in Vegas."

"We just got here Paddy. I don't want to leave."

"We got here seven months ago. Ooh, ooh – wheelchair. No fair. They cheat. Remember to check the shoes."

She laughed. "We're not going to Vegas."

"Suit yourself. Say, I wonder if I could do it with just my fingers on your pulse. I bet I could. Let me try…"

Still walking, he stepped back even further from her, taking her wrists in forefinger and thumb alone. She could see him concentrating, the slight furrow in his brow, the way his grin moved from cheek to cheek at he wondered and read her. But, to his credit, he was still walking, and two skaters had just whipped around and past, and he had sidestepped to avoid a stand of fruit, all without the slightest bump or wobble.

He was amazing and she felt a rush of pride come over her.

He would astound them in Vegas.

Suddenly, he shuddered and opened his eyes.

"What?" she grinned. "The wheelchairs throwing off your groove?"

He looked around the street as if not seeing it, turning ever so slightly to the right. They were very near an intersection, a narrow side street meeting the main artery, the bright morning sun casting it in dark shadows. He remained standing for some time, staring down that side street with alarm.

It disturbed her.

She laced her fingers into his and stepped close, as if the mere presence of her body could calm him. Bumped him with her hip until he looked at her, but then he pushed off down that street and she trailed, her hand still caught up in his. It was a quieter street, one side plunged into shadow but not deserted, and they walked for two blocks before he stopped again, this time at the mouth of an alley, darker still than the street, and they squinted to make out anything against the dark spray-painted brick and the blinding sliver of early morning sun.

"Paddy," she whispered. "I don't like this."

"It's from my dream," he answered quietly. "I saw this."

"Okay," she said, believing him.

"A woman died in here. Last night."

"Okay," she said.

"There was a button, a yellow smiley face button…"

"Walmart?"

"Yeh. Maybe."

"I don't want to go in."

"Yeh."

"And I want you to promise me _you _won't go in."

He still hadn't removed his gaze.

"Paddy, promise me."

"I promise."

"Can we go now?"

"She was young."

"Paddy, please. I need to get to work," she tugged at his hand. "I'll call the police from there."

He said nothing.

"Please? Let's go, now."

And she tugged again, this time pulling him with her a few steps. He turned away, face white, and she slipped an arm around him as they headed back to the sunshine of the street.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

It had been a long day at the coffee shop and she was tired. So tired that Ravi Daliwahl's attempts to cheer her had been met with half-hearted smiles and silence. Even the customers seemed to know she was off, and the tips were frequent and generous. It wasn't enough to lift her spirits however, and she was exhausted by the time 4:00 came around.

She hadn't kept her promise. She hadn't called the police. She had made him promise to go straight home, was counting on him to keep _his _promise, when all the while, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wasn't going to keep hers. It weighed on her like a stone.

So, she threw her apron in her bag, threw Ravi a little wave, and slipped out the tired glass doors for home.

She was hoping she wouldn't look as she approached the intersection, tried valiantly to keep her eyes straight on the road ahead, but the flashing of the red and blue lights caught her attention, and her heart sunk at the realization. There was already a crowd gathering, so she joined them.

"What is it?" she asked a bystander, who was craning her short neck for a better view.

"Dead girl," said the woman. "Found in a dumpster back there."

Her heart sank deeper. If that was possible.

"They think she worked at Walmart. She was wearing the colours."

Cops were moving in and out of the area, and a coroner's van was parked on the shoulder of the road. Angela narrowed her eyes, swept her gaze across the mouth of the alley. Fast food wrappers. Gravel. Tired tufts of grass growing out of the sidewalk.

"A girl's got to be careful," said the woman. "All kinds of creeps running around this city."

"Yeah."

"Late shift. No girl should be working a late shift in this city."

In the dirt, a button. A flash of yellow, two black slits for eyes and a smile. And maybe it was her imagination, but it looked like a splatter of red.

She swallowed.

Quietly, she slipped out of the crowd and back to the safety of the main street, the bright shops, the colourful windows and sandwich boards and signs. The traffic and the streetlamps that Patrick had so successfully navigated earlier this morning, and she thought of him and for the first time, was afraid.

He was sitting at the small kitchen table when she entered the apartment, a warm beer in his hand. The bottle was full but the cap was spinning, and she wondered how long he had been sitting there.

"Hey," she said.

He looked up and smiled, the sun breaking through the clouds.

"Hey," he answered, but it was a struggle, she could tell. "Did you have a good day?"

"Long."

She laid her bag down on the small table, pulled out a chair for herself. Eyed the bottle.

"Are you drinking?"

"Nah. Just thinking."

"That rhymes."

"All the times." And now he truly did smile at her, for this time it reached his eyes.

He didn't know.

They couldn't afford cable, didn't buy the paper. For all he knew, it was just another of his crazy dreams. Her mother had always claimed Patrick Jane was as gifted as the day was long. He doubted himself, but she knew, she and her mother, that this boy was special.

She took the bottle, downed a good swig herself, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and enjoyed the look of surprise on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Jane. Tell me about Las Vegas."

_The End_


End file.
